


Fiery Ruin

by deavors



Category: Incredibles (Pixar Movies)
Genre: Gen, prepare yourselves for a whole lot of family angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 02:17:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17930933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deavors/pseuds/deavors
Summary: AU where Cosmosis from the Incredibles 2 concept art is the third Deavor sibling, the younger brother of Winston and Evelyn. After a long absence, he returns home for Evelyn's trial. Angst ensues.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for checking out the story! If you want to learn more about my headcanons for Carson/Cosmosis, read this: http://shelectra.tumblr.com/post/182074307942/okay-so-this-handsome-devil-is-cosmosis-a-very

This might sound terrible, but Carson Deavor was not surprised whatsoever when he received word that his older sister was facing multiple lifetimes in prison. And he was especially unsurprised when he heard  _why_.

He had just finished a four-hour shift as Cosmosis, his heroic alter ego. Returning to his villa near Vitry-sur-Seine, he alighted upon the perfectly-manicured grass, smiling an easy smile as he regarded his modest home from afar. It was only  _modest_  by Deavor family standards: his elder brother and sister both owned properties that were far larger. To almost any other owner, the idea of owning a home this large and luxurious would’ve seemed a particularly ridiculous pipe dream. But by Carson Deavor’s standards, this home in the central-north of France was humble, and he was grateful to have it.

Inside, Carson went up the grand staircase to his master bedroom, where he shed his black, star-speckled superhero costume, donning a blue cashmere robe instead. (He almost melted with relief to be out of the suit: he loved being a super, but man, that thing  _chafed_.) He was feeling particularly self-satisfied: tonight he’d saved a busload of schoolchildren returning from a field trip from sinking into the icy waters of the Seine, and he’d also stopped a gang of criminals from “appropriating” the Mona Lisa, and he’d also rescued  _two_  kittens from trees, and if nights like these weren’t what being a super was all about, Carson didn’t know what was.

He wanted more than anything to spill his guts to Suzy, as he always did. He especially wanted to tell her about the Mona Lisa, because Suzy was an artist, and he hoped that particular detail would impress her. He remembered the evening they’d first met: the Musée d'Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris, the very first evening of a ten-night exhibition. He’d spent over two minutes simply staring at a particularly exquisite sculpture that had captured his attention, but when he met the artist behind it, she was a more enrapturing work of art than anything else in the museum. They’d been together five years now, and he wouldn’t have traded her for anything.

He  _also_  wanted to see Suzy because he’d picked up a gift for her on his way home. The people at the jewelry shop had been struck speechless to see a full-suited superhero casually walk into their store, but Carson had spent so much money there that he was certain he’d be welcome back anytime, costume or no.

He left his bedroom, one hand carefully tucked behind his back, and descended the grand staircase, calling out cheerfully, “Suzy!”

His girlfriend appeared from another room, slender and black-haired, wearing pink silk pajamas and padding softly over the artisanal wood floor of the main hall. She looked troubled: Carson recalled that she’d had a particularly important art show today, and wondered if it had gone badly. Oh, well; he could cheer her up.

He approached her, smiling gamely. “I might have bought you something. Close your eyes.”

Her troubled look didn’t disappear, but she did offer a wry grin. “Another ten-thousand-dollar gift?”

 “Nope, not this time. Close your eyes, for god’s sake.”

She did, and he stepped forward, reaching around her neck to fix a clasp. As cold metal touched her collarbone, Suzy groaned. “Oh, not  _another_  neckl—”

“Shush! There, it’s done; open your eyes.”

She did, looking down at the diamond-and-pearl necklace that sparkled on her chest. When she spoke, she sounded both thrilled and exasperated. “Oh, Carson—”

“Do you like it?” he asked with the eagerness of a schoolboy wanting to impress his favorite teacher with his work.

She half-smiled at him. “I like it, but Christ, how much did it cost you?”

“That’s a trade secret. Don’t worry about it.”

“Carson,” she said pointedly.

“Oh, all right. Nine hundred thousand.”

A little white lie: he was reducing the actual price by more than half. Still, Suzy looked ready to faint. “ _Nine hundred_ …”

“Suzy. You know it’s nothing. Especially not when it’s a gift for you. I can  _afford_  to spoil you, darling.”

She was blinking rapidly, as if trying to keep herself from falling. “I know you can afford to spoil me. I’m just not sure I can afford to  _be_  spoiled. This… this is too much.”

“It’s  _fine_ ,” he said with exaggerated slowness, placing hands on her shoulders. “It’s one necklace. It’s not going to bankrupt me. I could buy a thousand more of them and still have enough coin left to purchase myself another mansion.”

“I get that.” Suzy looked troubled again, a frown marring her eyebrows, as though she was trying to reconcile her childhood—which she’d spend in poverty, budgeting the smallest morsel of food as carefully as she could—with the life she was living now. (Or, perhaps, it was something else altogether.) “And… I’m grateful, Carson. It’s a beautiful necklace. I just wish you’d get that I don’t  _need_  stuff like this. I don’t need you to drop nine hundred thousand dollars on me in one night. I already  _know_  you love me.”

“I know you do.” He gave her a quick kiss. “Now, let me tell you about tonight. Something may or may not have happened with the Mona Lisa. Want to make popcorn and I’ll tell you all about it?”

“Carson…” That line between her brows didn’t go away, and she placed a gentle hand on his face. “I’m sorry. I should’ve spoken to you right away when you came back.”

The tone of her voice made his stomach drop. Something was wrong. “What? What is it?”

“It’s your sister.”

Anyone else, upon hearing these words, would’ve made a very different set of assumptions.  _Was there an accident? A murder? Does she have a disease?_ But Carson’s mind instantly went somewhere very different. He knew.

“What did Evelyn do?” he asked, voice totally flat.

“She was on the news this evening.” Suzy hesitated, her hand running down his arm and catching his fingers with her own. “You’d better come take a look.”

Carson did go take a look. He spent the next hour silently inundated with headlines, the glow from their flatscreen television illuminating his face. He said nothing, and Suzy said nothing either, sitting beside him on the couch and occasionally looking over at him with an expression of concern.

When he thought he’d learned everything there was to know—or, at the very least, everything the news could tell him—Carson quietly reached for the remote that sat between them, and flicked the “off” button, plunging them into near-darkness.

They sat in silence for a few moments before Carson—lost, in the dark, not knowing how to feel—said, “I’ve got to go back to America. I have to be there for the trial.”

Suzy covered his hand, resting on the couch between them, with her own. “Sweetheart,” she said gently, “you don’t even know that there’s going to  _be_  a trial. She might plead guilty.”

“Evelyn? Plead guilty?” He laughed without humor, already thinking about packing his bags, already thinking about the emotional weight of seeing his estranged family again. “When hell freezes over.”

 

She pled guilty.

Carson was there for the sentencing hearing, having flown to the United States to witness it. Suzy was not there: she’d had an important exhibition. Not only that, but Carson had begged her not to come. She didn’t need to witness this, didn’t need to get embroiled in the fiery ruin that was Carson’s family. Especially not at a time when said fiery ruin was blazing out of control.

Wearing a casual outfit, jeans and a white shirt and black blazer, he sat in the very back of the large courtroom, where he’d be less likely to draw attention. There, he watched in rapt silence as his elder sister, Evelyn, was sentenced to community service and house arrest. In punishment for one hundred and ninety attempted murder charges, and six counts of terrorism.

Carson would never say this aloud, but it didn’t seem like enough.

For all that he loved her, Evelyn had never loved him. She’d never loved anybody, he didn’t think. His sister stood rigid at the front of the courtroom, her back to him, wearing an oversized suit and looking skinnier than ever. When everything was done and the spectators in the courtroom started to shift in their seats as they prepared to leave, Evelyn turned around, allowing Carson to see her face: stony, framed with hard lines, betraying no emotion. It frightened him.

Then, his elder brother pushed away from a bench in the middle of the courtroom and went to the front, wrapping an arm around Evelyn, and Carson was even more afraid.

He hadn’t seen them in person for years. Not since he was a teenager. He hadn’t even spoken to them before since the deaths of their parents, an event he regretted more with every passing day; it was like a knife in his heart. Carson was the superhero of the family, the only Deavor child born with superpowers. When the ban against super activity had been instated almost sixteen years ago, he’d fled overseas to Europe, where the laws restricting super activity were much more liberal—where he could be  _himself_  in peace. And when his parents were murdered, Carson felt so much guilt and pain that he’d shut himself away, refusing his brother Winston’s calls, refusing to acknowledge what had happened, hiding away in France where he could—or, at least,  _thought_  he could—forget everything.

That was years ago now, and not a single day went by when Carson didn’t regret not jumping on a plane the second he heard the news, returning to put his arms around his siblings and be there for them.

He imagined  _they_  had some feelings about that, too.

He didn’t know why he’d come here, not if he was too cowardly to even approach his siblings. What did his support even  _mean_ , if he wasn’t brave enough to openly offer it? But still, Carson lingered in the back of the courtroom, hesitating for what felt like forever, biting his lip.

He was about ready to get up and slink from the courthouse, unseen and unheard, when Winston’s eyes met his own. And it was all over.

Carson’s elder brother looked like he’d seen a ghost. He went white, and Carson felt like a butterfly pinned to a board, affixed to this moment.

Then, Winston pointed, and it was all over.

“ _Carson_?” He heard his brother speak his name unbelievingly from across the courtroom.

Evelyn turned too, and her dark-suited attorney. Winston took a hesitant, unbelieving step towards him.

Carson knew Winston well, or liked to think he did. He knew Winston as the kind of man who would sprint across the room to give even the most distant acquaintance a hug and a handshake.

And Carson was his brother.

And Winston was barely moving.

As for Evelyn, the reason Carson was here today, a brief flicker of surprise flashed over her face, but within moments she became stony again. “Well, look who decided to show up,” she said.


	2. Two

Twenty minutes later, the siblings were packed in the back of a limousine—or, at least, packed as closely as they could bear, given the circumstances. Evelyn was on one side, sipping directly from a bottle of wine—Winston had made exactly one attempt to take it from her—and staring at her brothers in succession, her eyes flicking intently from one to the other. Winston’s hands were folded in his lap, and he looked more uncomfortable than Carson had ever seen him. Carson himself felt like death warmed over.

 “So,” Evelyn finally said, voice and eyes as clear as ever, despite the prodigious amount of wine she’d consumed. “This is worth coming back for, baby brother. Huh? Our parents die, and you’re not bothered enough to get off your ass and hop on a plane. But this… you just had to come and see this. Huh? Is that right?”

Carson knew she hated him. He knew it in every single one of his bones, and it had never bothered him too badly: it was just a fact he’d grown up with. Some sisters gave their brothers pet names; Evelyn had always called Carson “Golden Boy,” and it wasn’t a compliment, but a bitter thing that sprouted from her mouth like an ugly weed. It was his superpowers, he knew that. Those were what had come between them, had prevented him from having the kind of camaraderie with his siblings that they’d enjoyed with each other. He was a super, and they were not. It was simple. It was also the most complicated thing in the world.

“I’m sorry,” he said evenly, meeting—with some difficulty—Evelyn’s piercing gaze. “You’ll never know how sorry I am.”

She snorted, rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I bet I won’t.”

Carson took a bitter moment to appreciate the irony: Evelyn had just been sentenced for trying to destroy superherokind, for trying to force them back into the same oppression they’d been chafing under for fifteen years, and _Carson_ was the one who was sorry.

Winston cleared his throat, spoke for the first time. It was very unlike him to be so silent. “You’re welcome to stay with me, Carson. If you want.”

To his own surprise, Carson’s chest flooded with relief. Somewhere inside of him, he’d wondered if Winston hated him. And the idea of Winston—who loved everyone—hating his own brother… it was almost too much to bear.

But maybe Winston did hate him; perhaps he was only being kind. If anyone could pull off kindness and generosity at a time when hatred was boiling in them, it would be him.

“It’s alright, Winston. I can afford a hotel room.”

“I’m sure you can.” His sister’s tone was coated in sugary sweetness; he felt poisoned by it. “You couldn’t come to Mom and Dad’s funerals, but you sure could sign on the dotted line to get your lion’s share of their money. Ain’t that right?”

Carson winced, feeling like he’d been struck in the face.

“Evelyn.” Winston spoke sharply, a warning. “That’s enough.”

“Let her speak,” said Carson softly. “She’s right.”

Both of them looked at him. He couldn’t read either’s expressions. And that scared him.

“I’ve been… an awful brother. An awful son.” He chuckled, and it sounded terribly empty and inappropriate, and he instantly wished he hadn’t done it. “I should’ve come back when our parents died. I should’ve been with you. And I wasn’t.”

“You shouldn’t have abandoned us in the first place. You should’ve been here when it happened,” said Evelyn, her eyes as narrow as a cat’s. “How about that?”

“Ev…” Winston was pleading, now.

“You’re right,” Carson said. “You’re right.”

“I know I’m right.” Evelyn took another deep swig of wine.

“It’s not your fault,” Winston said firmly. “It’s not any of our faults. It’s _nobody’s_ fault, except for one person, and that’s the guy who shot Dad. He’s the only one who bears responsibility. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

Evelyn shrugged, wearing a dead-eyed grin. “Well, you already know my opinion on that.”

“I do. And I sincerely hope it changes.”

Evelyn didn’t respond.

Carson wished, wished to hell and back, wished with every cell in his body, that Suzy was here with him right now. And, in point of fact, he was also very grateful that she _wasn’t_. Suzy knew everything about him: his past, his secret identity, all that there was to know. She was the one person on Earth who understood completely, the one person who he trusted with everything. He wanted to talk with her now, wanted her to hold his hand through this.

He also didn’t want her to be exposed to his trainwreck of a family. And that desire overrode everything.

Winston said awkwardly, “So, how long do you think you’ll be with us?”

“As long as you need me,” he said immediately.

Evelyn scoffed. “Since when has anybody ever _needed_ you?”

“If you don’t,” he said softly, “say the word. I’ll go home.”

“Go home then. Ta-ta,” said his sister with a wave.

At the exact same moment, Winston spoke over her. “We’re glad to have you with us, Carson. Stay as long as you want. Heck, stay forever.”

Carson could practically feel, from across the limo, his sister bristle at these words. “No,” he said hurriedly, “I wouldn’t want to impose any longer than necessary. I’ll just stay until you get sick of me.”

“That shouldn’t take long,” droned his sister.

“Evelyn!” Winston sounded beyond exasperated, and looked practically on the verge of tears. “This has been an emotional day for all of us, okay? _Please_ don’t make it worse.”

But Carson knew that he, his presence, was the one making it worse. He felt terrible, and wished more than anything that he could just unbuckle his seatbelt, open the door and soar away from this whole situation.

He could, if he wanted. And he did want, desperately.

But a Deavor doesn’t give up that easily, doesn’t shirk their responsibilities, and Carson did feel as though he had a responsibility here. A debt to his siblings—and to his late mother and father—in exchange for failing to be here when they’d needed him most. He felt they needed him, somehow, some way, if only for closure, if only to have someone to scream and cry and direct their fury towards.

If they wanted a brother, they had him. If they wanted a punching bag, they had that, too.


	3. Three

By the time their limo cruised up the long, long driveway to Winston’s massive and modern mansion, Winston seemed to have recovered somewhat, and Carson was relieved to see it. For her part, Evelyn was still stony, still unreadable, as she’d always been to him.

The instant they made their way into the front hall of the home, Evelyn fled up the stairs, retreating somewhere on one of the upper floors, without so much as a glance at either of her brothers. Winston and Carson remained, standing awkwardly beside the now-closed front entry. Light from the doors’ translucent ovular windows spilled in, illustrating a day that was sunnier than it had any right to be.

“Er,” said Winston, clearly searching for something to say. Carson hadn’t seen him in person in… hell, it had to have been almost twenty years. Sixteen at the very least. His brother had changed, grown older. Streaks of gray now shot through his brown hair; wrinkles lined his face, laugh lines bracketing his eyes. It was a shock: Carson had left behind a young brother all those years ago, a brother barely into his twenties, and he’d returned to find _this_. It wasn’t necessarily bad. It just caused a pang in Carson’s heart, to think of all that he’d missed, of all that had changed.

Evelyn, for her part, had barely aged at all. She looked about the same as she had at twenty-two, clear-skinned and youthful, though with black circles under her eyes that betrayed endless nights of staying up past two in the morning, engineering the future. With her, it was like returning to the old days in a time machine, discovering that things were exactly the way Carson left them.

Including her hatred for him. That, too, remained.

Winston finally managed to spit something out. “Would you be okay with staying in the east wing for now? It’s just that, uh…”

“Evelyn is in the west wing,” said Carson with a sigh. “I understand. I don’t want to poke the beast with a sharp stick.”

“She’s not a _beast_ , Carson.”

The angry tone in Winston’s voice took him aback. “No, of course not. You’re right.”

“You’ve missed a lot,” said Winston, frowning at him. There was a great amount packed into those four words, so that each one was like a gut punch. _You no longer know who your sister is. You no longer know who your brother is. You no longer have any place here. The world’s left you behind._

Carson said: “I know.”

Winston continued. “And things are so complicated, and I was hopeful that we could try and work through this, that she could recover, but you—you’ve kind of thrown a wrench in things.”

Carson knew that Winston was mincing his words. Still, they stung, and badly. “If you want me to leave,” he snapped, patience finally wearing thin, “tell me. Don’t hint. Goddammit, I can’t _stand_ vague hinting.”

He instantly felt like a bastard for raising his voice, and Winston looked like he’d been struck, eyes a blinking smear of shocked white and blue. When he finally spoke again, he was quieter than before.

“I don’t know about Evelyn, but I don’t want you to leave,” his brother confessed. “I’m glad you’re here. Under any other circumstances I would be beyond delighted. I’ve missed you.”

Carson wasn’t sure whether to believe that. He flashed back to their childhood and teenage years: Winston constantly giving him sidelong green-eyed glances full of envy. Winston squirming while their parents heaped extra praise on Carson at the dinner table. The look in Winston’s eyes when Mother and Father announced that Carson was to be sent to a special boarding school, when they announced that Carson would be launching his career as a superhero, when they announced that they’d be funding his super suits, his gear, his training. Carson had spent decades pretending he didn’t notice how much Winston longed to be _seen_ like Carson was seen.

So, years earlier, when Carson left America for the super-friendly comparative haven of France, he hadn’t expected Winston to miss him at all. But the words didn’t sound false coming from Winston’s mouth: they sounded achingly genuine.

“I’ve missed you too.” He meant it; over the past sixteen years, he’d felt his brother’s absence in his life like a missing limb. His parents’, even more fiercely. Especially since their absence was far more permanent.

“But not Evelyn so much, I presume.” Winston was lightly joking, but there were decades of pain behind the words.

“No,” he admitted honestly with a wretched sigh and a bitter laugh, “not so much.”

His sister, who hated him. His sister, who had barely ever had anything to do with him, other than giving him two decades’ worth of cat-eyed looks that could curdle milk.

No, he hadn’t missed Evelyn as much. In fact, her absence in his life had been closer to a relief than anything. But—

“But you came back for her,” said Winston simply.

Carson shoved his hands in his suit pants pockets, an awkwardly adolescent gesture. “Yeah.”

To his credit, Winston didn’t have the discourtesy to ask _why_. The why was obvious. They shared a last name: they were all Deavors, and in the end, a Deavor always takes care of their own. Regardless of history.

After a few moments’ painful silence, Winston cleared his throat. “So. How’s France treating you?”

And they began to talk.

 

Carson hadn’t really _talked_ to Winston in probably quite a bit more than sixteen years. He couldn’t remember the last time their conversation spanned more than an awkward “hello,” a few stilted pleasantries, and a “goodbye.” Standard conversation stuff, the kind of discussion you’d have with a distant acquaintance, not with your own brother. This was different. They sat in the expansive living room on opposite ends of an elegant cream-colored sofa, and they _talked_.

Winston asked about Carson’s life, and Carson asked about his. Most notably, he learned about the superhero relegalization campaign that Winston had spent the past year organizing. Carson had heard that supers were once again allowed to perform hero work in the United States—meaning that, hypothetically, there was nothing blocking Carson from making a return to his home country. But he hadn’t. In any case, Winston told him all about it, about all the supers he’d met and the paradigmatic change he’d provoked, and Carson listened.

In due time, Carson told Winston about his life in France: the supers he’d met there and considered his colleagues; a few of his more recent adventures in hero work; and Suzy. Carson was usually a more private person when it came to his personal relationships, but something shifted during the course of their conversation, and he talked Winston’s ear off about Suzy. About her interests and the things they liked to do together—arts, museums, wine tastings—and about how beautiful and smart and funny she was, about how goddamn lucky Carson was to even _know_ her, let alone have her as a permanent part of his life.

When he was finished— _allegedly_ finished, anyhow; he’d thought he’d exhausted good things to say about Suzy several times now, only to start again with “And also, this”—Winston was smiling a very genuine smile. “She sounds like a real catch, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said, sounding dreamier than a grown man should sound. “She’s the best thing in my life.”

But he immediately winced, realizing how awful the words were. He’d abandoned his family and fled overseas for hero work—hero work was the reason he hadn’t been there to save his parents, to comfort his siblings; hero work was supposed to be his entire life—and yet here he was, telling his brother that the best thing about his life in France was a _woman he’d been seeing._

“Jesus, Win, I’m sorry. That sounds bad, doesn’t it?”

“Nah.” Winston looked unconcerned, unfazed. “It’s awesome to have someone in your life that you’re so excited about. Wish I had that.”

Confused, Carson blinked. “But what about Simon?” The last he’d heard—which, of course, was almost a decade ago, so maybe he was talking out of his ass—Winston had been engaged to an attorney-slash-superhero named Simon J. Paladino, otherwise known as Gazerbeam, who had briefly been a super colleague of Carson’s before he made his move to France. Carson hadn’t known Simon very well, but had considered him a pretty great guy, and Winston was crazy about him.

But perhaps Winston and Simon had broken up. If they had, Carson probably wouldn’t have known about it. He winced, feeling tactless.

Winston’s face closed off, his smile disappearing. “Simon, uh… he’s not around anymore.”

“Oh.” Carson reached over, placed a tentative but sympathetic hand on his brother’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help you through that. You two were pretty damn in love. It must’ve hurt like hell.”

His brother responded quietly, “It did.”

“So what happened? You leave him, he leave you, you two decide to end things mutually, or…?”

“He died,” Winston said shortly.

“Oh.” _You idiot, Carson!_ “Jeez, I’m sorry, I had no idea.”

Winston chuckled, with no humor at all. “Don’t be sorry. I only learned about it a few months ago. It was a surprise to everybody.”

“What happened to him?”

“Well, there’s a lot to unpack there,” Winston said with an awkward, sad smile. “This villain, he was going around targeting superheroes, luring and murdering them. A lot of the old-days supers you and I looked up to… well, they’re gone. Including Simon. And every day, I think about how I could’ve stopped it, if only I’d been more careful, if only I’d said to him, ‘Don’t go.’ But I didn’t. And he’s dead. And that’s that. It’s over.”

Carson was agape, horrified. He hadn’t heard a whisper about this; maybe he was more isolated in France than he’d thought. “ _Murdering supers?_ Which ones are dead?”

“Oh, Carson.” Winston shook his head, lips pursed into a thin white line. “All of them. I’m honestly glad you were in France. He might’ve got you too.”

“All of them…?” Carson felt weak in the knees, even though he was sitting; his stomach heaved. With horror, he named a super he’d considered a mentor and friend: “Hypershock?”

“Yeah.”

“Blazestone?” Though she was nearly a decade older than him, Carson had always had a crush on her, and they’d done a few missions together back in the day.

“Uh-huh.”

“Vectress?” One of his best friends; he regretted leaving her every day.

“Yup.”

“But surely not Everseer…?’

“Almost all of them, Carson,” Winston murmured, looking on the brink of breaking down. “I could count the ones who are left on one hand.”

Carson was staring at the ground, mouth wide open, unable to muster any response to the horrors his brother had told him. His friends and colleagues, dead, snuffed out. It was almost too horrific to be believed. Never mind the fact that Carson had left the United States without even saying goodbye to most of them, and now he would never get the chance.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice choked and hand pressed over his mouth.

“I know.” It was Winston’s turn to place a concerned hand on his brother’s shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Knocked the breath outta me when I first heard, too.”

“Who _is_ left then, Winston?” He turned to face his brother with pleading in his eyes. “Is there anybody still alive?”

“Mr. Incredible, Elastigirl, Frozone, and Plasmabolt. I told you I could count them on one hand.”

“ _Four_ supers…” Carson was this close to vomiting. “Win. That’s genocide.”

“I know,” said Winston. The hand on Carson’s shoulder squeezed again.

“So how did it happen?” he demanded. “I don’t understand. One man killed all those supers?”

“One man,” Winston affirmed, brows meeting, and not looking Carson in the eye. “One billionaire with all the resources in the world at his fingertips. The guy lured the heroes by promising them paid hero work.”

Carson didn’t know if he’d ever heard anything so evil. “So this bastard exploited a whole cohort of lonely, bored, oppressed people. Jesus fucking god.”

“Yeah. He had aspirations to kill all the glory days supers so he could become one himself. It’s…” He shook his head. “…it’s a story that defies explanation. I can’t even begin to understand why he did it. He took all those lives. A whole generation of heroes.”

“A whole _generation_ of us,” Carson echoed. The nausea was building, but conversely, he also felt numb. “I could’ve easily been one of them, Win. If I’d have stayed here, if I’d have spent the last fifteen years rotting away in a cubicle instead of out doing hero work. I would’ve taken that offer in a heartbeat. And I would’ve died for it.”

Winston spoke with gentle humor. “Let’s be real, Dad would never have let you rot away in a cubicle.”

It was true. Carson had to be honest with himself: if he had chosen to stay in the United States and be forced out of hero work, he likely would’ve gotten some worthless degree and become a trophy son for the rest of his days, working at some useless figurehead job at DevTech and spending far more time on the golf course than in the office. And his parents would’ve allowed it. Because—no matter how much his parents had denied it, decades ago—Carson _was_ the golden boy. The favorite child.

But Carson hadn’t done that. As soon as the Superhero Relocation Act was even a whisper in a single politician’s mouth, Carson’s father had looked him square in the eye and said, “You should leave. This isn’t the place for you any longer,” and Carson had fully agreed with him. He was Carson, but he was also _Cosmosis_ ; hero work was what he’d been born to do, and there was no stopping him. If he’d stayed in the States, he either would’ve been utterly miserable and repressed, or he would’ve turned to illegal vigilante work and gotten himself arrested. Fleeing to a more liberally-lawed country was the only option for him.

And it might just have saved his life.

Again he turned to his brother, scowling and sick, trying to fight down tears. “Winston, I… I’m speechless. Why didn’t I hear about this? Like I said: this is _genocide_. This should’ve been front-page news in every country around the world.”

“I’m not privy to the whole story, but far as I know, the NSA is still investigating what happened,” Winston said gently. “I know you want answers. Heck, so do I. But they’re trying to, y’know, be thorough about everything. Find out exactly what happened and why before they release any information. Until then, everything’s classified. Especially to the general public. I’m lucky to be an insider.”

A whole generation of people, of leaders, of heroes: gone. Strong, brilliant, vibrant people, all snuffed out like a weak candle. Carson almost couldn’t believe it; somewhere inside him, he was waiting for Winston to grin and say, “Ha! Gotcha!” as if this was all some form of sick prank. But Winston did nothing of the sort: his eyes stayed sad, his mouth stayed thin and downturned. Somehow, this was really happening.

“Evelyn…” When Carson spoke next, his tone was shot through with hot anger. “Did Evelyn know about this?”

“Yes, she knew. Dicker gave us a few vague details, and Elastigirl filled us in on the rest later. It was… an emotional time. She shed a few tears.”

But for the moment Carson didn’t care about Elastigirl’s tears. “You mean she knew about this genocide _before_ she did what she did. And she did it anyway.”

Winston caught on, now, to the depth of Carson’s pain and betrayal. “Yes,” he said simply, not judgmental or hesitant, just a statement of fact. “And I’d understand if you never forgave her.”

Carson made no reply. He wasn’t ready to even _think_ about forgiving Evelyn, yet. And to think he’d been so desperate for _her_ forgiveness! What she’d done was one thing: Carson knew, better than almost anyone, that Evelyn’s actions were born of grief and guilt and trauma. But for her to know, full well, that superherokind had been decimated, almost destroyed, and for her to nonetheless attempt to stamp them even further into the ground, for her to try her damnedest to destroy any hope that the survivors had…

It was almost too much to think about.

“I might be able to forgive her,” he said, stone-cold, numb. “One day. I don’t know. I don’t know about anything, Winston. This is all… so much.” He suddenly thought of something. “What happened to the villain who did this?”

“He’s dead.”

“ _Confirmed_ dead?”

“Yes, they found remains, as far as I know. It’s _over_ , Carson. You can’t get revenge for them. All we can do is move on.”

And maybe Winston was right: it _was_ over. But Carson felt a sense of deep guilt, because once again he’d missed it. First, he hadn’t been there to help his siblings after his parents’ deaths; now, he’d missed an entire war—badly, brutally lost—fought against his fellow superheroes. He should’ve been here alongside them. Sure, he was glad he was alive, that he hadn’t been targeted by this serial killer, but… survivor’s guilt overtook him, hunching his shoulders and curling its cold fists in his stomach.

“If it’s any consolation… I’m glad you’re alive, Carson,” Winston softly spoke. “You’re one of them, and you’re a survivor. You’re living proof that supers can’t be stamped out.”

“Thanks, Win.” But his words rang hoarse and hollow, and he wasn’t sure he believed anything anymore.


End file.
